Movement
by Clan Dragoodle
Summary: Everyone moves on; except them.
1. Cloud

_You say that you're leaving,  
Say that you don't need him,_**  
**_And all I do is give,  
And you just take_

---

There is a bar, on the corner of reality and enlightenment. A shabby collection of bar stools and booths centered around the drowning senses. A tangy twist of memory control served and available for trade if need be. Or one could order the first meal in two days to sober over a conversation of the future.

It attracted and drew people across the street and rubble to the entrance, having the door propped open on a small girl's shoulder blades. Her smile a welcoming exchange from the dismal hangings over the reconstructing city. And in the incomplete planet, this bar on the corner of reality and enlightenment was heaven.

The Seventh to be exact.

Now, no one ever went into questioning of the other six Heaven's, and at the end of the night, that topic wasn't important - or mentally possible to bring up. This Heaven intoxicated the suffering to forget they are not the Presidents of distant lands, to forget they are only drowning their capabilities of memory. To forget that if they take just one last sip, they might never wake up from the past.

From the good days.

But that was to consider the past as good days.

History can be defined in text under the Totalitarian reign of the Shin-Ra Electric Power Company. Of course the word "Totalitarian" is rare along the streets and tongues of Midgar. Usually subbed for "Powerful". Or "bastards".

And under this reign of censorship and media spin there was a war of terrorism being played above the people's heads. Tallying score in lives and creating ammo in threats and blood.

Those were the good days, which says something about the current ones.

But the people continue to drink their futures away. And the barmaid of these drinks cycles in the past under the name of Tifa Lockhart.

Standing no taller than five-foot-four, her head draped in dark, feathered hair, ivory skin, and vibrant amber eyes. Her eyes, slanted and fierce in oriental heritage stretching to Wutai, her mouth a brilliant shy smile placed between petals with a slender figure gone soft in a lax lifestyle. She is captured as "beautiful", or at very least, "pretty", when men's minds stumble with alcohol and cannot pronounce six syllable words.

Which these days, is quite often.

Adorned in black, she ties a ribbon of crimson around her bicep, hanging in memory of a story never told. And never wanted to be retold. But as she moves it sways with her, brushing its gentle ends against her body as a constant reminder. The small girl from the entrance mimicking Tifa's movements, a shadow at the edge of the woman's heel. And so the past works its way around her; an aura of the good days.

And like the day before this, she was working around the bar. A serving tray propped on her arm and a small child picking up menus from the table in her footsteps. The long dark locks falling down her spine and moving in the breeze of the open door.

"Lockhart, when you gonna wise up and marry me?"

It had taken several attempts at the sentence before it actually became audible. The man, a regular customer to the drinks, and a familiar acquaintance (not friend) to the bartender.

"When Midgar rises from the dead."

She wasn't facing the man, but waiting a table of six instead.

"I don't understand why that Strife fellow don't have a ring on your finger, if it was me I'd-"

"Already have me shackled in your debt? You don't even have the gil to marry me."

She flashed the expected smile at the two women at the table, the two giving her a small nod of sympathy.

"Is that what love comes down to these days? Gil?" He was turned in his seat, relying heavily on the stability of the wooden chair. His face flushed with over-indulgence and brown hair tussled with the day. "Is that all women are worth? You just have to buy their love?"

She'd made it behind the bar before sagging her shoulders. It always seemed that on the corner of reality and enlightenment, when the tongue was swollen it still managed to spill the truth. And yet, when sober, it was able to lock away that truth in lies and candy coatings. Now, what does that say about the world?

"I'm just saying, you have a long way to go before you can think about taking my hand in marriage."

It wasn't a particularly busy evening for the establishment, but for sake of ending the discussion she pretended to busy herself with organizing the plates and glasses for easy access. This way, she would be prepared should another hundred people decide to show up in a moment's notice.

"Table two needs a Choco fry."

It was her waist talking, or more appropriately (and likely), the small girl at her waist: Marlene.

The girl was going on ten this time around, her hair fading from the lighter shades of youth to a richer brown and tied up by a pink bow. Her bangs had been pulled away from her face to expose a chocolate gaze on a pale complexion, sprinkled with freckles. She looked her age, but walked with a burden far past her years.

"Can you take this to table four, then?"

"Of course!"

Taking the glasses eagerly in step she returned to the two women at table four, serving with smiles and an echo of someone long gone, the pink bow bouncing in her movements.

"Tifa Lockhart, I will marry you! And I'll take you away from all of this!"

He was standing now, holding his empty glass out to her, "And Marlene and little Denzel are coming!"

At the sound of her name, Marlene stifled a giggle and turned to watch Tifa's reaction. Denzel, sitting back in the farthest corner either didn't hear or didn't care, continuing to mark over a map of Cloud's schedule.

"Where you going to take me exactly?"

Fumbling with the stove, she started on the base for the soup requested at table seven.

"To Heaven!"

There was a small chuckle around the bar, filling in the cracks and dusty floorboards. The noise had dimmed to a murmur for onlooking bystanders. Curiosity never died.

"Heaven? And where is Heaven?"

She glanced up to look into his glassy gaze and crooked grin.

"Seventh Heaven!"

There was a small echo of applause at the revelation, the man taking an overly animated bow to touch the floor with the top of his head. Tifa dipped her own head to hide her disappointment.

"This isn't Heaven."

It was a whisper, but Denzel peered up with olive eyes at her silhouette across the room.

*****

He stood in the shadow of the door, his face completely masked from emotion by the night hanging above. Posture straight and stiff in the opening, unnatural and defensive came to mind. Two words that hurt more than what he spoke, his voice low and empty, carrying to her between the soft thudding of her heart beat.

"I can't fix this."

At that moment the whole planet seemed to pause, caught and trapped in the sentence, the beat, the truth. There was no echoing foot-step, no misplaced shuffle of sheets from the bedrooms behind them. There was only silence and the suffocating air that surrounded him, encircling her better judgment and trapping her in the clause.

Her brain began to whirl, playing over the words and logically connecting the past. And perhaps that's when the tears began to fall. Images and names flooded her mind, etching fresh wounds in her heart. And she spoke the first thing that came to mind; the only thing that managed to escape the flood of the past.

"Do you love me?"

They were almost pathetic, her questions. Reflecting back, she now understands the childish nature of such an inquiry. If someone truly loved you, you wouldn't have to ask.

But he didn't see the question the same way she did. His stance tightened and his eyes slanted downwards, leaving him to face away. Naturally he took a step back toward the porch.

No longer did his hair glow in its godlike blonde, the strands falling heavier with sweat and dirt from the day. His creamy palor was dampened in the dim lighting of the bar, letting his Mako stained eyes take a new glow, sheathed in downturned butterfly lashes. His mouth was a straight line, and his face seemed more slender than in previous years; the age was catching up and hanging on the blonde brow.

This was the new Cloud Strife.

And she, the new Tifa Lockhart.

"Tifa, it's not about _that_."

He was still facing the floor.

"We can fix _it _together."

Her mind was still spinning, and what exactly she was signing up to fix became a very long list.

"You can't make someone unlose their life."

She froze in the icy stare, her amber irises weakened by tears staining her ivory skin, as usual, unable to melt his gaze; unable to make him understand.

She struggled in her throat, searching for something to say. She'd always known he would say this; always heard it repeated in the back of her heart; always had an answer. Except for now, with her mind clouded and tongue choking her, vision blurred by the tears.

"Don't cry."

Instinctively he raised his left hand toward her, draped in heavy leather with a black glove stretching toward her face. It was the same arm he'd bound with the twin red ribbon. Vibrant crimson hidden beneath black, and in the darkness the gesture was nothing more than a Geostigma infested limb. He didn't bother to take a step.

But she did.

Backtracking into the counter of the bar she managed to stay upright by supporting her weight on the lip. Her arms tensed and she gripped the edge of the counter; an attempt to suppress the shaking.

"I don't understand, we're a family."

"We're not married."

"You don't have to be!"

"You can't fix this."

It stung.

She couldn't fix it. She was helpless. She had no control in the situation. He was just another thing she couldn't force into reality. The world was reconstructing; broken and slowly healing; scattering to rebuild. Her situation was no different. He was the world on which her civilization was rebuilding.

"I'll be back."

He was leaving.

She couldn't say anything. She'd known this day would come, and had locked her heart to protect herself from the downfall. But false hope was always her demise, and he carried the key in his gaze. He carried the control, which, reflecting back, is what she cried over the most.

He had the control.

And in his departure, he took with him her support beams, her reasons for fighting, the ordinary of her days. He took her chance at a normal family life. His engine shattered the silence of early morning, startling the two children from their dreams, waking them to a broken home. He took his leave as Sector Seven crashed behind him, her knees scraping against the floor as her arms gave way, the tears falling on the floor like rain.

He'd left her alone.

Alone on the corner of enlightenment and reality, serving cures to nightmares and building false hope. He'd left her alone in Heaven, to rot under a future in turmoil and all forward motion nonexistent. She was the bartender to the dying, nurse to numb the pain.

And he was her Heaven.

"This isn't Heaven."

* * *

**Beta: Cheerie Mai and S . Zix  
**


	2. Barret

_I can see that you're uneasy,  
And it's not gonna change_

---

"I don't understand why you waste your time on him; Spiky has his ways. Leave him be." The larger dark skinned man crossed his arms at the small table, bumping it several inches in the movement, "Us men need our space some days."

Barret had been spending most of his time out in the oil fields off of Corel, but every few weeks a visit was due inland to Midgar to see Marlene. He was missing more than birthdays between visits though; but Tifa didn't feel the need to articulate that.

Nothing much had changed for the bulky fighter since the 'good ol' days'; his weapon still rusting away against dark flesh - useless in these days of construction. He was never much good for building things, destruction was more his game.

But Tifa didn't feel the need to articulate _that _either.

"Cloud can finish what he needs, I just wish he'd stop walking through exits," she hit a low note over his name, almost whispering it as if to imply she was afraid he'd be standing over her shoulder to listen.

In the late hours of the Seventh Heaven, the barmaid spent her evenings washing down counter tops and dishes, and even in the company of friends, this habit continued. The fighter ran a wet rag over the polished surface to leave a layer of glistening tears on the wood. Washing away the day's meals and marks. Washing away the past.

"The hell that mean?" Barret set his glass down from the mouth to form the question.

He never really was one for poetry. But then again, was she?

"Denzel looks up to him, and yet, he continues to leave his promises open and empty," Tifa busied herself with stacks of dishes, organizing for tomorrow's breakfast rush, "His word is useless these days."

The black man was staring intently at the women, his dark eyes rough and searching. Tifa had never been one to spare harsh words on companions – especially not Cloud - but something had changed in her movements. The way her hair hung and the coloring of the skin. She touched things a little harder, as if griping onto concrete, tensing to hold on to her surroundings.

"You don't think he'll come back?" Posed as a question it was more a statement, his baritone vocals hanging through the bar.

"I don't think he'll come back."

The dish she'd dried nine times was left to sit on the bar top, leaving her hands to support on the wood. Her hazel gaze cast downwards from the friend, hiding.

"I don't think he'll ever be back. I don't think he's ever been _here_."

Lowering her down turned face, she lay the forehead upon the moist bar. Collapsing into her arms, her weapons now walls around the vision, hair pooling to curtain the peripherals. And in this cage the tears began to fall.

Weakness was not in the description of Tifa Lockhart, not in the vocabulary. A mismatched emotion in the fighter's presence, labeled not as "weak", but as "caring". And that truth disgusted Barret. That she was weak at the hands to those closest to her.

That only a select few could wound the fighter.

And he, one.

She found an enormous hand engulf the shoulder, the palm scared in calluses. Warm and soft in the grip, rubbing slowly to scratch the rough patches on her skin.

"You're the only family that asshole has lef' – He has to come back."

"He shouldn't _have _to."

She didn't - couldn't - finish the sentence.

_He_ had taken everything worth finishing.

* * *

**Beta: S . Zix  
**


	3. Cid

_And you got your reasons,  
But I didn't need them_

_---_

"I don' know why you even waste tears on that guy!"

In his frustration the blond stamped a fag out on the table before him, earning a disapproving look from his wife across the seat.

"Cid!" Shera hissed between a sip of her tea, a small heel finding its way into the pilot's shin, "It's none of _our_ business!"

"Aw Shera! To hell with it! Someone's gotta set her straight an' I'll be damned if I don't say notin!"

He made it a point of fact to tip his glass at her before turning back to the barmaid, who was once again – busying herself with her work.

Continually loosing herself in the role.

"Cid, I don't know what you heard – or from who," Barret. "but I'm fine, really," she said, turning away from the stew to begin on another drink for the old friend, flashing a smile.

"Come off it, Tifa," the pilot pulled another cigarette from the faded denim of his chest pocket, pausing to light again, "I don't need to listen to that oil hand ta know somethin' is up."

"Tifa doesn't like to talk about it anymore."

In the quiet bar scene the atmosphere let the small girl, Marlene, hide away as a wallflower. She'd taken good practice in the title and developed several skills – including eavesdropping (not that hearing the pilot was hard) - but more the perfection of figuring the barmaid out.

"Well thank you Cap'in Obvious."

Despite harsh words the blond let a crooked smile between the scruff and messed the girl's hair while she took his empty glass.

"Marlene, you don't have to work – go outside and play with Denzel," Tifa said, meeting the girl halfway across the room with the new drink, setting it to the old friend and taking the empty one.

She wasn't trying to shoo the girl, but her intentions of butting Marlene were clear enough to earn an eye roll from the child.

"Denzel went off with Reeve."

"The hell he off with that asshole for?"

"Cid! Language!" Marlene merely giggled at the bickering as Shera apologized to Tifa with a look. "Perhaps Reeve is teaching him about politics, or letting him ride along in reconstruction?"

"Nah, Denzel wants to join the WRO."

"The fuck does he want do that?"

"Cid!"

"What? It's stupid – git himself killed!"

"_Language_!"

"Ah – the hell with it!"

"Denzel wants to help people."

"Marlene, why don't you go wait table four?"

In the conversation Tifa had fixed her fingers into her hair, knotting at the back of her neck in thought – her sudden outbreak in volume to the conversing sent silence over the child and her ducking to the edge of the bar where table four sat. The barmaid brought her hands to her temple, massaging slowly.

"Sorry 'bout that, Tif."

Cid sunk a little lower in his seat under his wife's glare.

"Don't worry about it, think who her father is," she responded, earning a fragile smile to slip onto the ivory features before she set about clearing the mahogany table of their food.

Stacking the plates on her forearm, the fighter kept her eyes level on her work; not giving the opening to her friends for interpretation and allowing a strong silence to take hold of the situation. Just the way she preferred it.

"Sounds like a full time job – being a mother."

The comment came from the sand colored brunette, Shera meaning no harm in the title of 'mother'. She flashed a warm smile, pulling dimples to dot among her many freckles, plain brown eyes opening to Tifa

"I try my best."

She would leave it at that, not mentioning that being a parent was usually a team effort. But perhaps there was the flaw in her logic – that she qualified as a mother, or a parent to these orphans - or that simply being a parent was in fact a team effort. And perhaps this kind of thinking was exactly the problem.

"Sounds like that Denzel is a real handful," Her tone is still a warm smile as her husband busied himself with his addiction, blowing even puffs to draft in the above fans of the muggy afternoon.

"He doesn't really listen to me."

Removing herself from the table she worked behind the bar to rinse the plates on her forearms, the lighting creating a shadow of her expression.

"Smack 'em around a bit, he'll listen to ya."

The pilot didn't even turn his eyes from the space they were currently staring of into, throwing his accent over the shoulder.

"Cid! That's not how you treat a child!" Shera chided, once again drawing her features into a scowl, reaching across the table to pluck the fag from her partner's mouth, "And for the last time, smoking is gonna kill you!"

The pilot so caught off guard that his mouth was left agape, free from the addiction to stare at her. Obviously in their time together Shera had managed to find her voice and place in Cid Highwind's busy lifestyle. They'd spent one to many late evenings together and ended up in love.

What a silly mistake that was.

But Tifa didn't get a chance to reflect on the harmless bickering of her friends behind her, the drone of the sink drowning out their comments to a dull hum of sound. A blend of the world at her back, moving and flexing in volume as she focused in on clearing the plate. Using the water to wash away the stain, tilting the fragile porcelain in her grip.

How the water ran smooth over the ivory surface, glossing it of the past meal and pooling the remains into a silver drain. A dark circle of an abyss that ran nowhere her mind cared to muse over.

"Tifa!"

The woman snapped back from her meticulous inspection, dropping the plate the few inches to shatter in the sink in the surprise of a small hand tugging on her waist.

"Oh no! I'm _so sorry_!"

The small hand belonged to an even smaller girl; Marlene drawing back from the loud sound at seeing what she'd done, hands drawn up about her face. Instantly her eyes weld in tears at the sheer guilt and anticipation of the reaction, the bar silent in curiosity over the noise.

The water still running in the sink, creating a strange rhythm between hitting the broken plate and sliding onto the metal of the base sink. The fighter slow to react and staring into the pieces of the ivory porcelain.

"Please don't' cry, Tifa," the little girl didn't move from her cowering position, voice hushed in fighting tears as Tifa continued to stay motionless to the situation.

"Marlene," it was a thrown from the door, young and monotone in calling, "turn the water off and get that table's drinks."

Stepping from the darkened doorway let Denzel's form start to take shape – the light causing his hair to take an auburn coloring, eyes dulled to a smooth olive.

As instructed, the girl maneuvered about the barmaid to shut the water off as the usual drone gathered again about the bar. The water now powerless to block out specifics of peoples conversations. Marlene then looked to Denzel expectantly, standing shoulder to the woman still lost in a gaze at the broken plate.

"Leave her be, if she wants to cry over a stupid plate let her whine."

Moving between the tables the boy was caught on the arm by the faded blond pilot.

"You show yer mom some respect!"

Olive eyes flicked over the contact before twisting the limb free with some surprise from Cid.

"What do you know? Nothing obviously, 'cause she's not my mom."

"Now Denzel, that's not very nice," Shera tried, taking a different approach to stand from her chair to lean down to the boy in a mothering tone.

Condescending how he saw it.

"And she's not Marlene's either! Letting her cry like that!"

"Denzel, it wasn't Tifa's fault – the plate scared me."

The smaller girl glanced by, balancing three glasses for the distant table. Fully recovered from the shock of the previous minute.

"Yeah! And 'sides, the hell were you? You should have been helping these ladies out!"

Cid made fun by poking and prodding the child on the arm or shoulder, having his hand slapped away each time only to try a different area.

"Looking for Cloud, since no one else will!"

The pilot paled a moment before swinging wildly to see if a certain someone that shouldn't have heard a certain remark did, only to find that a certain someone wasn't around. And as the man continued to twist in his seat, examining every corner of the bar he continued to come up empty on the barmaid's whereabouts.

No one had noticed her remove herself upstairs.

But a certain someone's eavesdropping talents could pick up someone crying.

* * *

**Beta: S . Zix**


	4. Yuffie

_Wherever you go, I'm calling,  
Even when we're fallin' apart_

_--- _

She didn't know why Tifa called her, and frankly -- at that hour-- she didn't particularly care. Yuffie Kisiragi didn't really care for _anything _at two in the morning -- well, maybe materia -- _maybe_. And despite the overwhelming urge to immediately hang up, she didn't, but she knew why.

Tifa was crying -- no- - _dying _from the other end. Like a cat held down in a bathtub by a person clearly not wearing the protection required to practice such animal cruelty. The speaker not capable to fully capture the spectrum of sounds the woman made, cutting and fizzing between sobs. Yuffie rose from the bed, pressing the phone closer to her ear and pinching the bridge of her nose in annoyance.

"_I'm so sorry Yuffie!" _She instantly began, "_I know I probably woke you_-"

"Well, yeah -- _duh_-- you did," the ninja princess snorted, "what the _hell do _you think people do at two in the morning?"

"_I know, I just -- I didn't know who else_-"

" What about Cloud? Isn't that his job as resident penis?"

Tifa went silent; which was possibly much worse than the noises she composed before. Yuffie sighed loudly, closing her eyes and lying back into her sheets; the phone was still against her ear.

"What's bothering ya, Tiffakins?" She heard the other girl laugh lightly, "What's that bugfuck done _this_ time to interrupt my beauty sleep?"

"_He left_."

It's only a week later that Yuffie arrives, bag under one arm and pack slung over the other. The Edge streets were dirty, and the bar was 'shoddy' at best, sitting in a crowded lot with a slight tilt. She couldn't really blame Cloud for leaving this place, but as she saw Tifa 'round from the back she instantly changed her mind.

She was tired, worn -- and honestly -- a complete wreck; her hair was matted and tangled, clothes unkept, and left shoe undone. She didn't see Yuffie in the street as she started up the porch, walk heavy and slow.

It was only the teenagers loud sigh that attracted the woman's attention to turn around and spot the friend.

"Hey."

"Hey."

There was silence as the sudden idea struck both that everything that could be said, had been. Despite the realization, they both continued to stand there, not saying a word.

It was an hour later before Yuffie was fully unpacked in the guests --Cloud's -- room, sitting on the bed and examining her feet. Where the bar had once been lively and loud (to an obnoxious extent) it was now quiet and dismal. The hardwoods were dusty and the hallway pictures hung crooked, and Yuffie's feet were just more fun to look at.

But she supposed she didn't come here to have fun, though it would have made the trip better.

"Yuffie?"

The ninja princess glanced up from the floor to look at the little girl, Marlene. They'd only met on few occasions, but Yuffie had gained enough about the girl to understand the resemblence between her personality and the faded pink bow that held her braid back.

"Can you fix Tifa?"

Denial had always been Tifa's game, and if she was broken, Tifa would be sure she would be the last one to know. Yuffie thought it was a genius skill as she watched the barmaid mosey about the tables, trading smiles and idle chatter between customers for forgetfulness and distractions.

She was broken alright, but how Yuffie was to fix it, the ninja knew not. In all her experiences and travels she'd learned that Duct Tape did in fact _not _fix everything.

"I'll try, Marlene."

* * *

**Happy Valentine's Day!****  
****Beta: S . Zix**


End file.
